


Submission

by osprey_archer



Series: Reciprocity Extras [10]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blow Jobs, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Past Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Praise Kink, Submission, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:05:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9721217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: It's hard for Steve to trust Bucky enough to submit to him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mithborien](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mithborien/gifts).



> Thank you to littlerhymes for beta-ing this!

“You don’t have to, you know,” Bucky says. He’s over by the window, one leg planted on the floor and the other resting on the sill. He’s looking out the window, hands moving restlessly with nothing to occupy them; he ought to have a cigarette. 

“I know,” Steve says. He’s still on the bed, fully dressed again amidst the crumpled sheets and broken ropes. 

“Then why the fuck do you keep insisting that we try this?” Bucky sounds tired, not angry. 

“I want to,” Steve says, and stops, blushing, not just his face but his whole body flushing with painful embarrassed heat. 

He was never able to say it, not even to Peggy. The closest he ever got was to agree when she sketched out possibilities to him, and even that, he did with his head down and his cheeks flaming. _Yes,_ he’d said, scarlet all through, kneeling by the bed, hands tied behind him and downcast eyes fixed on her feet in their high heels. She twisted a hand in his hair and pulled his head back, forcing him to look at her, his eyes tearing from shame and the pain of his pulled hair, and lifted a foot to stroke his erection with the slick red toe of her shoe. 

Bucky waits. Steve can’t get enough air to speak. Bucky jerks his hand as if to smack it against the windowsill, and stops himself at the last moment and lowers it gently against the wood instead. He rubs his hand over the smooth white paint. “You want what?” Bucky asks. “To make me feel like shit?”

“No,” Steve starts. 

But Bucky’s found his exit line. He pushes himself away from the window and strides across the room. It’s a mercy that he doesn’t slam the door as he leaves. 

Steve rolls over, mashing his face in the pillow. The sheets twist around him like a lumpy unpleasant cocoon. 

He does want it. He has always wanted it. Kneel at Bucky’s feet, kiss his boots. Let Bucky tie his hands behind his back, leave Steve at his mercy, force Steve to his knees and make him suck Bucky’s cock for hours, bend him over the table and fuck him raw, strip Steve naked and tie him to the bed and leave him there all day for Bucky to come in and play with whenever he wants, all trussed up so he can’t come till Bucky decides he deserves it – 

Even now, nearly sick with embarrassment over failing Bucky again, Steve’s getting hard at the thought. He wants it. He loved it when he and Peggy played these fantasies out. 

It’s just that – when Bucky is actually there, actually looming over him – 

Then Steve’s body seizes. His mind shrills. This is the man who shot him in the stomach; the one who held him down and punched him again and again in the face. Who came back from Hydra and insisted on having everything his own way and demanded an infinite supply of pancakes and attention and handjobs and couldn’t have cared less about Steve. 

And Bucky had been brainwashed, he’d had his memories wiped, he was traumatized; it fucked him up. Steve knows that. He accepts that. He’s not angry, he doesn’t blame him. 

It doesn’t do a damn thing to stop the panic. 

***

The sun is no longer beating through the western window when Steve gets up. It’s low and slanted now, heading on toward sunset. 

Bucky’s sitting at the kitchen table with a glass of orange juice when Steve comes in. He glances up when Steve enters and then scowls down at the tabletop like he’s thinking about stabbing it. “We’ve got to sort this out,” he says. 

He sounds angry, but it’s not directed at Steve. Bucky hates talking about things. 

Steve sits in the chair catty-corner to Bucky’s. He gets up, pours himself a glass of orange juice too, and sits again. 

“Okay,” Steve says. He’s not too fond of talking about things either.

A long silence follows. Condensation collects on Steve’s glass. A breeze stirs the curtains over the window.

“I don’t get why you want to keep on trying this,” Bucky says. “When you always bail partway through. You like grinding it in my face that you don’t trust me?”

“No!” 

“Okay.”

Bucky sips his orange juice. Steve sips his as well. The acid sears his throat. 

Bucky continues. He sounds like he’s dragging the words out with a hook. “Is it ‘cause we do it for me? You think you owe me or something?”

“No,” says Steve. He’s staring at the tabletop. “I told you. I want to. I’ve always… thought about these things…” 

Another painful silence. The breeze lifts the curtains so they brush against the walls. 

“Just because you fantasize about something doesn’t mean you’ve got to like it for real,” Bucky says. He flicks his glass with a fingernail. It tings dully. “The internet says.”

Steve’s face burns. “I know,” he says, and now he sounds angry too, because he had to force the words out through his clenched throat. “But I – when Peggy and I – I liked it when Peggy and I – ”

He hopes that’s clear enough. He can’t get anything else out. 

“Well,” says Bucky. “That’s different, though. She wasn’t a supersoldier. She wouldn’t have been able to hurt you, not like that. Maybe if she got the drop on you. But not like that.” 

“Yes, but…” Steve swallows. It hurts like it hurt when he had the mumps. “I could hurt you,” he says. “And you still trust me.” 

“Not to tie me up.”

No. Bucky has never asked to be tied up. Bucky holds onto the headboard, and just – lets Steve take care of him. If he wants anything in particular, he has to ask, with his words and not his hands. 

Usually Bucky hates asking for things. When he first came back from Hydra, he’d lunge across the table to grab the salt rather than ask for even that. But in this ritualized form, he does it, he loves it, he cuddles up against Steve afterwards and tucks his head under Steve’s chin. 

And of course Steve always gives him everything he asks for, in the end. Sometimes he just has to wait. 

“It’s still different.” Bucky’s voice is quiet. He slouches. “You never hurt me.”

“I broke your arm,” Steve says. 

“In the helicarrier,” Bucky says. “But that was different. You had to. You haven’t…” He glances up at Steve. “You never hurt me on purpose.” 

“You didn’t – ” Steve begins.

“Fuck you,” Bucky snaps. “I did too. Don’t fucking patronize me.” He stops. “Sorry,” he says, and stops again, collects himself, goes on more quietly. “But we both know that’s bullshit, Steve. All those months at the beginning when I treated you like shit, it’s not like I was just too fucking stupid to notice it hurt you. Hurting you was the goddamn point.”

Steve’s jaw clenches. He does know this, it’s not like it’s a surprise, but it’s still shocking to hear Bucky state it so bluntly. 

“Why?” Steve asks finally. 

Bucky sighs. He slouches. “I was angry,” he says. He glances at Steve briefly and then away at the billowing curtains. The sunset turns the white cotton gold. “You thought you were so much…” He pauses, searching for words. “So much healthier than me. So much more put together. So much more in touch with reality.” He finishes the orange juice and keeps the glass in his hand, inspecting it. “I wanted to cut you down to size.” 

Steve can’t help wincing. “I was so fucking smug,” he says. “If I’d believed you about SHIELD from the beginning – ”

“Christ,” Bucky says. He sounds tired. “Of course you blame yourself.” 

Steve nearly argues – he blames himself because it’s his own damn fault – but he stops himself. Arguments about fault never go anywhere except around in circles. “There’s more than enough blame to go around,” Steve says. 

Bucky nods. They sit for a little while in fragile agreement. 

Then Bucky swings out of his chair and takes his glass to the sink. “Let’s just leave it for a while,” he says. “Yeah? You don’t trust me to tie you up, that’s fine, I don’t blame you, it’s just – you don’t have to rub my face in it.” 

Steve nods. His throat feels full. He’s been so caught up in his own feelings about it that he hasn’t really thought how this must make Bucky feel. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t mean to.”

Bucky shrugs. “So don’t do it again. Let’s just leave it for a while.” 

“All right,” Steve says. He tries not to sound as despondent as he feels. 

Bucky comes around the table. He bends over the back of Steve’s chair and kisses Steve’s hair, light as a butterfly. Steve lowers his head. 

He’s sunk so deep in his thoughts that he doesn’t realize Bucky’s leaving the apartment until he hears the gentle creak of the door as Bucky closes it softly behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to littlerhymes for betaing this!

Bucky doesn’t return till the next evening. He’s carrying a stack of pizzas, like he already knows that Steve has barely eaten since he left, and they chow down on the pizzas in silence. 

They’ve just gotten started on the second pizza (veggie lovers, with extra mushrooms) when Bucky says, “Pepper was in town.” 

Steve, his mouth full of pizza, looks up interrogatively.

“So I stayed the night there,” Bucky says. “We played poker.”

Steve’s stomach relaxes. He had envisioned Bucky walking all night looking for a fight, or riding his motorcycle down the back roads at a hundred miles an hour, or getting blowjobs from hookers in alleys, or God knows what. “Poker,” Steve says.

“For M&Ms,” Bucky says. “She’d been testifying before Congress. So I let her win.”

Steve translates this to _Pepper wiped the floor with me_. He wouldn’t want to go up against her poker face.

Bucky flips open the third pizza box: buffalo chicken, a new favorite. “You stay here all night staring at the ceiling and beating yourself up?”

Bucky knows him too well. Steve takes his time chewing his piece of pizza. He chews and chews and chews, and finally swallows, and says, “Thanks for the pizza.” 

And things continue like that for a couple of weeks – polite, a little strained. Bucky sleeps in his own room every night. Steve misses him, but if Bucky wants his space – well, Steve did plenty to drive him away. 

They throw themselves into training. Steve is learning capoeira. Bucky pesters Tony to teach him how to fly an Iron Man suit. They’re both relieved when a mission comes up. 

Afterward, they end up at a cheap hotel by the highway. Bucky heads down the street to a bar to shoot some pool, while Steve clumps up the stairs to their room to read. Double beds, widescreen TV. Light of the highway seeping through the crack in the curtains. Reproductions of Georgia O’Keefe’s cattle skull paintings on the wall, a nod to the fact that the hotel is in the West. 

Bucky gets back just after Steve switches off the lamp. Steve lays quietly for a few seconds just to savor the sound of Bucky trying to be quiet – there was a time when Bucky wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass about keeping it down, never mind if he woke up Steve – before he murmurs, “I only just turned out the light.” 

Bucky is sitting at the end of the second bed, easing off his left boot, but at the sound of Steve’s voice he dumps it on the nubbly hotel floor and leans over to turn on the light. “Could’ve said you were awake,” he complains.

“Just did,” Steve counters. 

There’s a little pause. Bucky’s eyes flicker from the bed he’s sitting on over to Steve’s, and then back again. He looks down and picks at the buckles on his right boot, and it occurs to Steve suddenly that perhaps Bucky doesn’t need space after all. Maybe he’s been giving Steve space because he thinks Steve’s the one who wants it. 

Steve would laugh, but he’s not quite sure he’s right. He sits up and pats the bed beside him, inviting. 

Bucky’s slumped shoulders straighten. He unsnaps his boot buckles and slings the boot aside, then bounces onto Steve’s bed. He rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder and says, “Read to me.”

Steve snorts. Bucky pokes him in the ribs. “I’m reading about the history of tank warfare,” Steve says. “You want to hear it?”

“Yes,” Bucky says, suppressed laughter in his voice. “Put me right to sleep.” 

“You oughta get a shower,” Steve protests. Bucky frowns and pokes Steve again, and Steve bumps him on the head with the book and kisses the corner of his mouth. “I’ll make it worth your while,” Steve coaxes, his voice dropping low. 

It’s nearly an hour before Bucky actually gets that shower. 

After that, things settle back to normal, more or less. Steve doesn’t ask Bucky to tie him up, which is honestly a relief. Bucky doesn’t ask Steve to take care of him anymore (that’s how he always put it, _You gonna take care of me?_ – always with the bright competitive gleam in his eyes as he said it: he was going to make Steve earn it), and that hurts. Bucky still gets that mischievous look sometimes, but now he turns away, and when he turns back, he’s still smiling, but the gleam is gone. 

Steve wants to say it’s okay, they can do that – he’s glad to do that; he misses doing that for Bucky. But the one time he tries Bucky brushes him off, and Steve lets it slide, and lets Bucky try to unbutton Steve’s shirt with his mouth – “You’re gonna swallow one of my buttons,” Steve complains. 

“And then what? It’s not a watermelon seed, it’s not gonna grow in my stomach,” Bucky taunts. 

And Steve wrestles him over on his back and undoes the button on Bucky’s cargo pants with his mouth, just to show him how it’s done; and the moment passes, and somehow it’s even harder to bring it up after that. Things drift on until they go to England. 

Steve’s invited to London to be the Guest of Honor at CarterCon. Bucky comes to England, but not to the con; he heads off on a walking tour, and they arrange to meet at the Carter’s old holiday cottage after. 

Bucky has lit a fire by the time that Steve arrives, and Steve stops at the sight of it, a strange complex of feelings swirling in his gut. The cottage is so changed that he almost couldn’t connect it in his mind to the place he and Peggy once spent a night on leave. 

The windows are no longer covered with blackout curtains. Taupe walls and a shaggy orange couch have replaced the shabby flowered Victorian wallpaper and horsehair sofa. But the fieldstone fireplace and the cheery fire in the grate are the same. 

“Steve?” Bucky says. He’s sitting on the hearth, peering up at Steve. 

“It’s different than when Peggy and I were here,” Steve manages. Seventy years ago. Funny how the time gap still shocks him sometimes. 

Bucky’s gaze has sharpened. “You came here with Peggy?” he says. 

“Yeah.” 

“She tie you up here?” 

Steve’s spine stiffens. Peggy feels very near in that moment, and Steve’s annoyed by the question. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell. “We were only here one night,” he says curtly. 

“Sorry,” Bucky says. A strand of hair falls in his face. “I just meant…” He prods the fire with a stick, searching for words. “If I had a better idea of what you wanted,” he says. “If I knew what you thought being tied up would do for you. Maybe I could work out another way to give that to you.”

Steve moves away from the fire, looking out the window at the garden. “I don’t know,” he says.

He never had to explain, with Peggy. They just worked it out together, in the heat of the moment, just doing what felt good, and Steve hadn’t thought about why.

He’s not sure he wants to know why. The why of it is probably embarrassing. 

The slender moon is barely visible through a thickly-leafed tree, and Steve wonders with another little stab if that was there seventy years ago. 

“Like, you know, when you and me…” Bucky’s voice is soft. Steve turns from the window to look at him. Bucky’s mouth twists up to the side, self-mocking. The fire casts long shadows on his face. “When you take care of me.”

He barks out a short laugh. The sound seems to surprise him, and he glances around, as if there might be someone aside from Steve listening. 

“And it’s nice because I can,” Bucky says. He’s stabbing at the fire. “I don’t have to… I can let you take care of me. And everything will still be all right.” He lifts his eyes to Steve’s. “Are you looking for something like that?”

Steve drops his gaze. “I don’t know,” he says again.

But this time he tries to go on. Maybe he’ll stumble on something if he tries to explain. “It was nice,” he says – he feels like the words are being dragged out of him on hooks – “during the war – because I had so much responsibility in the field. It was nice not to be responsible for anything, and…” 

He may set the curtains on fire if he blushes any harder.

“Just to do what she said. And she’d tell me how happy I made her – how well I was doing,” Steve mutters. He wants to flee the room. He forces himself to look at Bucky instead. 

Bucky looks thoughtful. “When’s the last time anyone told you that you were doing a good job?”

Steve’s so embarrassed he can’t speak. He has to swallow twice – the first time he can’t get enough spit to do it properly. “It’s been a while since I have.” 

“Bullshit,” Bucky says. 

He doesn’t say anything else for a while. Steve manages to look at him again. Bucky has his chin propped on his hand, pensive, like Rodin’s sculpture of The Thinker. Despite his carapace of embarrassment, Steve cracks a smile. 

He’s glad he did, because just a few seconds later Bucky looks up. “I’ve got an idea,” he says. “How about I’ll say nice things about you – ” Bucky’s eyes light up. “And you can’t argue with them.”

Bucky says this like it will be a great treat. Steve frowns. “I don’t argue with you when you compliment me.” 

“You argue with everything I say.” 

“I do not – ” Steve begins. But Bucky’s smirk stops him, and Steve fumbles for a rejoinder that isn’t technically an argument. 

“ _Especially_ when I say nice things,” Bucky says. 

He sounds so smug that it stings Steve into argument. “You barely ever say nice things about me anyway.” 

Bucky frowns. “I’m out of practice,” he admits. 

Bucky used to be the master of a well-turned compliment, back before the war: he could light a girl up with just a few words. Hell, even after his first Hydra captivity during the war, he hadn’t lost the knack. “Remember the time Morita spliced into that Hydra loudspeaker system?” Steve says. He crosses the room, sitting gingerly on the hearth across from Bucky. “And he started playing Benny Goodman on it? You just about knocked him over telling him what a good job he did afterward.” 

Steve’s smiling at the memory: Bucky pounding Morita on the back, and Morita slinging an arm around Bucky’s shoulder and just about dragging him into a headlock to make him stop, and the two of them play-boxing in the shadow of the emptied Hydra base. 

“We were always coming up with shit like that,” Bucky says. He’s smiling too, but distantly, reflective. “And you’d tell us to go for it. You trusted us.” His eyes focus again, and he’s looking at Steve, serious. “You were a good leader.” 

There’s an ache in Steve’s throat. The fire is hot on his face, drying out his eyes. Steve adds a few more small sticks to the blaze. “It was a long time ago,” he says. 

Bucky frowns. Steve steels himself. Bucky’s going to get annoyed at Steve for deflecting another compliment. 

But Bucky just slides himself off the hearth, so he’s sitting on the rug with his back against the bricks. “Come over here,” he says. 

Steve does so. He intends to sit next to Bucky, but Bucky puts his hand on Steve’s shoulder, pulling, and although Steve stiffens, he lets Bucky tug him until Steve is lying with his head in Bucky’s lap. The brick hearth is warm along Steve’s side. Bucky rests his flesh hand on Steve’s forehead, covering his eyes. He rubs his fingertips into Steve’s temple, massaging, and Steve closes his eyes. “You’ve done good shit since the 1940s,” Bucky says. “Yeah? Stopping Hydra’s helicarriers and all that.”

“At the last possible moment,” Steve says. 

“You’re blaming yourself for not discovering a top secret hush hush helicarrier program ahead of time? Do you blame yourself for the atom bomb, too?”

Steve is taken aback. “Of course not.” 

“It’d be ridiculous,” Bucky agrees. “You don’t blame yourself for everything bad that happened in World War II. So why do you do it with SHIELD?” 

Steve opens his eyes. His eyelashes drag across Bucky’s palm. He can see thin lines of light in the chinks between Bucky’s fingers. “It’s not the same,” Steve says. 

“It is, though,” Bucky insists. “The only difference is they built Captain America into some kind of demigod while you were dead, so when you came back, they acted like you should be able to fix everything, and now you’re beating yourself up ‘cause you can’t. But you’re still just one guy. You wouldn’t have gotten much done without us Commandos. And the Commandos wouldn’t have been worth shit without the US Army, and the US Army couldn’t have done a damn thing without the Red Army cutting Hitler to bits in the East. Even a supersoldier is a pretty small thing, Steve.” 

Steve tilts his head back. He’d be looking up at Bucky if Bucky’s hand weren’t in the way. “This is saying nice things?” he says. 

Bucky ponders. “Maybe not.” 

But Steve’s stiff shoulders have begun to relax. He turns his head so it’s resting more comfortably in the crook of Bucky’s knee and closes his eyes again. The fire crackles. Steve can smell the wood smoke and the woolen rug, which is scratchy under his palm, and the scent of Bucky’s skin through his cargo pants. 

A log pops in the fireplace. There’s a billow of heat as the fire flares, and Bucky takes his hand off Steve’s eyes to poke at the fire again. 

Afterward, he doesn’t put his hand back where it was. He drums his fingers gently against Steve’s cheek. Then he drags Steve up, so Steve’s sitting in the V of his legs and leaning back against him, and wraps an arm around Steve’s stomach and presses his face into Steve’s hair. “You’re the most goddamn stubborn little cuss I’ve ever met,” he complains. 

Steve can’t suppress a smile. “Thanks.” 

“Oh, that’s the kind of compliment you’ll take?” Bucky pretends he’s indignant. “You shoulda told me from the beginning. It would’ve made things a lot easier if I’d’ve known I could just tell you how much you annoy me, and you’d just smile and say thanks.” 

Steve twists his head around so he’s grinning right into Bucky’s face, and Bucky kisses him on the mouth. 

Steve chases after the kiss when Bucky pulls away, but Bucky catches him. “No,” he says. “You don’t get to touch me till you’re real good.” 

“Oh yeah? And what’s real good look like?” Steve asks. 

Bucky kisses him again. “Same as before,” he says. “I say nice things about you and you don’t argue.”

Steve’s smile falters. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

“I bet you can,” Bucky says. “Like I said. You’re the most stubborn cuss I’ve ever met. You can hold your tongue if you try.” 

He’s smiling, but Steve can’t smile back this time, and Bucky’s smile fades too. “I won’t say anything too nice?” he suggests, and Steve cracks a painful smile. 

“That’s probably a good idea.”

“All right then,” says Bucky, and then he pushes Steve off his lap, turning him around and pinning him to the rug. It’s not rough, just fast, and it’s surprise rather than the movement itself that makes Steve feel like he’s had the breath knocked out of him. “I guess maybe you’re not the worst,” he informs Steve, so sternly that Steve begins to snicker.

Bucky maintains his stern face. “You might not even be in the bottom fifty percent,” he says, as if making a great concession, which makes Steve laugh harder. 

Bucky’s mouth twitches. The laughter is catching. “I guess maybe you’re pretty okay,” he allows, and then his stern face dissolves and they’re both laughing. A few strands of hair have slipped out of Bucky’s ponytail, and they tickle Steve’s face, so he’s twisting away as he laughs. 

“I might be able to handle something more positive than that,” Steve says. 

“I’m not gonna push you too hard,” Bucky says. “You might fall down and die of embarrassment if I told you you’re just about the best person I ever met.” 

Steve does go red. He has to hold his breath to keep from blurting out a denial. 

When he lets the breath go, he’s got it back under control. “Only just about?” he demands, and he even manages to sound put out. “Really? Who beat me out?” 

Bucky shouts with laughter and then he’s kissing Steve, a hard wet kiss on the mouth and then a whole series of kisses on his jaw, down his neck, in the hollow of his throat just above his t-shirt. He scoots down to Steve’s waist, nosing Steve’s t-shirt up and kissing him right below the belly button, and then biting him, very gently. Steve’s hips jump. He’s got the rug twisted up under his hands and he’s holding onto it because that’s the only thing stopping him from tangling both his hands in Bucky’s hair and dragging him back up for a proper kiss. 

He’s not sure he likes that he can’t, that he’s not _allowed_ , and he has to force his hands to relax on the rug. His body remains tense, just for a moment, and then it relaxes too, and he remembers – not just in his head but with his body – why he does like this: that it’s nice, sometimes, not to think about what he’s going to do next, but just to sink into the moment and feel.

And it feels pretty good. Bucky’s sucking on his belly button, and he’s got his flesh hand up under Steve’s t-shirt. His gun calluses catch on the tender skin along Steve’s side. Warmth pools low in Steve’s gut, slower and steadier and headier than regular arousal. 

Bucky’s lips are flushed red when he looks up at Steve. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” he says. 

“It’s the serum,” Steve says.

“ _Steve_!” 

“Sorry,” Steve says, and he is, really. “Me and my smart mouth.” 

“Oughta put something in it to keep you quiet,” Bucky grumbles. 

He’s joking, mostly, but the thought excites Steve so much he can barely breathe. “Yeah,” he manages. He’s trying to sound casual, but his breath is coming too fast. “Maybe I’d better suck your cock. Keep my mouth busy so I can’t argue.” 

“Yeah?” Bucky lowers his hips so they’re just touching Steve’s, and Steve swallows a moan. 

“Yeah,” Steve says.

“Yeah,” Bucky says slowly. He’s peering into Steve’s face, appraising him. 

And suddenly he’s in motion: hauling himself to his feet, staggering the few feet to the couch and sitting down hard, his legs splayed inviting. He pats his inner thigh. “C’mere,” he says. 

But when Steve shuffles over on his knees, Bucky puts a hand on his shoulder before he can reach his goal. “No, wait,” he says. “Take your clothes off.” 

Steve strips his t-shirt off first. He knows Bucky likes watching this and he does it slow, making it a show, letting the t-shirt mess up his hair as he pulls it over his head. He can feel the heat of the fire on the muscles of his back. 

His pants are harder. There’s no graceful way to get out of them while he’s still kneeling on the floor, and he doesn’t think he’s supposed to stand, and they twist around his legs as he struggles out of him. 

But at last he tosses them aside, and his boxers swiftly follow, so he’s kneeling naked at Bucky’s feet with his cock jutting up against his belly. He wants to cover it with his hands, and clasps them behind him instead, which makes Bucky smile. 

Bucky nudges Steve’s cock with his bare toe. Steve shudders all over his body. It’s all he can do not to thrust himself against Bucky’s shin. 

He doesn’t, though. Bucky strokes Steve’s cock with his foot, slow, and slides his foot under Steve’s tight balls, weighing them on his toes. Steve tries to hold still, and trembles all over. Bucky smiles at him. “Good boy,” he says, and spreads his legs further. Despite the looseness of his cargo pants, Steve can see his cock straining against the fabric. “Come on.” 

The carpet scratches his knees as Steve shuffles in. Maybe Bucky guesses, or maybe Steve winces, because Bucky swipes a couch pillow and positions it for Steve to kneel on. “Keep your hands behind your back like that,” Bucky says, and Steve does, although it’s awkward positioning himself on the pillow without his hands to help him. He rests his head against Bucky’s taut thigh, breathing in the hot smell of arousal. 

“Go on,” Bucky says, his voice tight with excitement. Steve leans forward, mouthing Bucky’s cock through the rough fabric of his pants, starting at the base and moving upward. He can already taste the heat. 

“Christ,” Bucky mutters, “you fucking tease – ” 

Steve pops the button on Bucky’s pants. Bucky gasps. 

The zipper’s a little more trouble. Steve gives up on opening it with his teeth and pulls it down with his fingers, instead, and now that he’s gotten his hands involved he’s too impatient to use his mouth anymore. He hooks his fingers in the waistband of Bucky’s boxers and peels them down. Bucky’s cock is thick and hard and looks almost purple in the firelight. Steve has to swallow so he won’t drool all over him. 

He plants a quick enthusiastic kiss on the head of Bucky’s cock, then flicks his eyes up at him and stops. 

“You waiting for permission?” Bucky asks, and groans, and answers himself: “You’re waiting for permission. Suck it already, Christ, please.” 

Steve’s barely got his mouth on him before Bucky comes. Steve swallows it down, licking the last of it off the head of Bucky’s cock as Bucky softens afterward. But instead of pulling back he sinks down, taking Bucky into his mouth. Bucky grunts with surprise. His hand threads through Steve’s hair, not tugging, but close. “Gentle now,” he says. 

Steve has every intention of making this gentle. He wants it to last this time, wants to keep Bucky in his mouth till his own jaw aches. He’s not even sucking at first, just holding Bucky in his mouth. Bucky strokes Steve’s hair, and then his hand roams over Steve’s head, massaging the back of his neck, his shoulders, sliding down over one shoulder blade and kneading the muscle just beneath it. Steve swallows convulsively around him – he can’t help it; he would have started drooling otherwise – and when Bucky laughs, Steve can feel the rumble through his body. 

“I oughta get you one of those vibrating dildos you mentioned that one time. Stick it up your ass and make it go while you’re sucking me off,” Bucky says. Steve swallows, his throat bobbing, and Bucky, “You’d like that, huh? You’re fucking beautiful on your knees like this. I’d turn it on and off, watch you writhing, _Christ_ – ” His hips jerk; he likes that picture. “You think you’d come just from that? My cock in my mouth and something up your ass?”

Steve swallows again. Bucky’s cock, hard again, nudges the back of his throat, and Steve swallows again, tilting up his chin so Bucky’s cock will slide down his throat. 

“Let’s try it,” Bucky says. His voice is tense, excited. “Hey. Let’s try it. Suck one of your fingers, that’s it, get it all wet and stick it up your ass.”

Steve’s mouth is already stretched wide around the thick shaft of Bucky’s cock. It’s a tight squeeze to fit a finger in too. It must feel good to Bucky, though, because he groans again, and he’s cupping Steve’s cheek. Steve presses his finger against his cheek, so he and Bucky are fingertip to fingertip through the skin. Steve runs his knuckle down the side of Bucky’s cock.

Bucky rubs his cheek. “I swear,” he says, “you’re the best fucking cocksucker I’ve ever had,” and Steve goes hot all the way down his body, blushing with pleasure. He brushes his free fingers against Bucky’s balls, which have drawn in tight against his body, and pokes his tongue out of his mouth just enough to get a taste of them with the tip. He’s made Bucky come just by sucking his balls in the past. 

Bucky groans again. He’s got his hand around Steve’s wrist, pulling Steve’s finger out of his mouth with a wet popping sound. “Go on now,” he’s saying – Steve’s getting woozy from lack of air; Bucky’s voice sounds underwater, far away, and the only real things are the heaviness of his cock in Steve’s mouth and Steve’s cock between his legs. “Put it inside you. Yeah? Unless you don’t want to. You don’t got to if you don’t…”

A note of uncertainty creeps into his voice. It jars Steve, and he’s working his finger inside his ass before Bucky can even finish his sentence. 

His spit got cold in the air, despite the warmth blazing off the fire, and at the first touch his body tightens, and he has to hold his finger there to warm it up before he can finish pushing it in. 

But once it’s inside, and his finger is as warm as the rest of him and he’s running his finger up inside, searching for the best place that will send splinters of pleasure up through his body – then it feels wonderful. 

“Ah,” Bucky sighs, like it feels just as good to him, and Steve realizes that he’s started sucking Bucky’s cock for real now, simply out of his own desperation for release. 

Bucky’s hand is in Steve’s hair again, trailing down the side of his face, touching his throat, like he can’t decide what he wants to touch most. “I’m supposed to be talking,” he mumbles, and his voice has that half-drunk sound it gets when he’s turned on as hell. “Telling you how pretty you are now that you can’t fucking argue. You really are fucking beautiful, you know that, and it’s not the goddamn serum, that didn’t change your face at all.”

Steve’s sucking harder, red in the face, because if he makes Bucky come that’ll make Bucky stop, and Bucky can tell and it’s making him laugh. “And your hair, and those pretty Irish eyes,” he tells Steve. “You always had a lot of good points, Steve, you just couldn’t – ah – couldn’t fucking see it. You think I would have thrust you on all those girls if you were nothing but a dog? You think they would’ve _agreed_? There’s always been dames who like the shrimpy artistic – ”

Steve curls his tongue around Buck’s cock. Bucky cuts himself off with a gasp. He’s pulling Steve’s hair and Steve doesn’t care, he’s so far gone it feels good. 

“And,” says Bucky. He’s breathing hard, like he’s been running. “And, and – ” Steve pulls back, so he’s just sucking the head of Bucky’s cock, letting himself catch his breath – and when Bucky seems to have caught his breath too, Steve sinks back down, taking Bucky into his throat. “ _Fuck_ ,” Bucky says, and Steve feels fucking smug. Steve’s head is swimming. The whole world is the pressure and heat in his throat and the fire in his veins and Bucky’s voice, far away, Bucky saying, “And you _are_ just about the best person I’ve ever met. So there.” 

Steve chokes, swallowing consulsively. Bucky’s hand twists in his hair, and Bucky comes down his throat. 

This time, Bucky pushes Steve off afterward. Steve sprawls back on the floor, legs twisted under him, gasping for breath. He is suddenly aware of the ache in his cock and his jaw, his heart pounding against his ribcage, his lungs expanding as he sucks in air, and for a few moments his own body fills his awareness. 

When Steve’s regained enough breath to look up, Bucky seems to have relaxed back into the couch. His head flops against the back. His eyes are closed, his soft cock resting against his boxers, his mouth open as he pants. 

Bucky’s eyes open. He blinks at Steve syrup-slow and smiles. “Fuck yeah,” he says, and Steve, still gasping, smiles back. 

He tucks his cock back into his boxers and zips up his pants, then bends down and hooks his hands under Steve’s shoulders. He pulls Steve to straddle his lap, Steve’s knees splayed out to the sides and his aching hard cock brushing Bucky’s stomach. “You did real good,” Bucky tells Steve. 

“Yeah?” Steve pants. 

“Yeah. I guess you did,” Bucky says, and he threads his hand through Steve’s hair and pulls him in for a sloppy kiss. 

Steve’s dizzy and breathless, and he gets even dizzier when Bucky lays him out on the couch, moving Steve as if he were light as a feather. And now Steve’s on his back, legs splayed and Bucky in between them, smiling down at Steve so that Steve can’t help but smile back. “You did real good,” he says again, and turns his head to kiss Steve’s knee. 

“Here,” he adds, and he’s pressing one of his fingers along the line of Steve’s mouth, and without thinking Steve takes it in and sucks it. Bucky strokes the inside of Steve’s cheek. He’s shuffling forward, lifting Steve off the couch, and sliding a pillow under the small of Steve’s back. Steve’s legs are hooked over Bucky’s shoulders. His cock aches. 

Bucky pulls his finger out of Steve’s mouth. Steve moves after it, mouth open, and Bucky bends in and pushes him back down with a kiss. Steve’s legs are nearly doubled up against his body, his ass open, the warm air from the fire brushing the sensitive skin. 

“You’re being so good,” Bucky tells Steve. Their mouths are so close that his lips brush Steve’s as he speaks. “You’re being so good for me. Just let me take care of you. Yeah?”

He’s got his hand on Steve’s ass, his slick fingertip caressing the puckered skin of Steve’s asshole. Steve’s thighs tremble from tension. The ache feels good. “Yeah,” Steve gasps, and Bucky kisses him firmly and pulls away. 

He slides his slick finger in Steve’s ass. It only takes him a few moments to find the spot inside that makes Steve’s cock jerk against his stomach and his hips jump. Steve’s hands clench on the couch cushions, kneading them mindlessly.

“You gonna fuck me?” he asks. 

“Christ, you sucked me off too good for that,” Bucky says, and laughs at the mixture of pride and disappointment that flicker across Steve’s face. He darts forward to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry.”

Steve’s expecting – he’s not sure what he’s expecting – but not for Bucky to bend down and kiss the base of his cock. It’s tender, almost delicate, and Steve finds he’s holding his breath. 

Bucky’s mouth remains on Steve’s cock, gentle. He licks Steve’s flesh, and Steve’s hips flex again. His thighs are trembling, and he’s sure Bucky can feel it, because his legs are still hooked over Bucky’s shoulders. “Buck,” Steve mumbles. His fingers have punched through the couch fabric into the foam stuffing.

Bucky crooks his finger inside Steve, pressing just so against the sensitive spot inside him. He slides his mouth just a little higher on Steve’s cock. Steve makes a sort of high-pitched croak that might embarrass him if he weren’t so far gone, but he’s dripping pre-come on his stomach and Bucky is licking his cock again, very delicately, just the tip of his tongue, and it’s so close and so close and not enough. 

“Please,” Steve croaks. “Please.”

Bucky rubs his finger inside Steve. He flirts a look up at him, kneeling between Steve’s legs with his mouth on Steve’s cock, a few strands of hair falling out of his ponytail into his face, and Steve’s cock jerks at the picture he makes. 

Bucky smiles. Steve can see it in the crinkle around his eyes, feel the curve of Bucky’s lips against the thick shaft of his cock. He’s still rubbing his finger inside Steve, teasing his thumb at a place right behind Steve’s balls. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, barely touching Steve’s skin, and then he presses it hot and flat against Steve’s cock and licks a slow wet stripe nearly to the head. Steve comes before Bucky gets there.

It feels so good that it almost hurts. It almost hurts, too, when Bucky slides his finger out of Steve, leaving Steve sore and empty. Steve’s cock softens, and Steve becomes aware of the tension in his thighs, still hooked over Bucky’s shoulders, the ache in his jaw from sucking Bucky off for so long. 

Bucky disentangles himself from Steve’s legs. Steve’s sore thighs spasm as his legs come to rest on the couch. Bucky is straightening his crumpled shirt, hooking his loose strands of hair behind his ears: putting himself to rights as easily as a cat. 

He kisses Steve’s mouth one last time, business-like, and Steve feels a foggy confusion as Bucky gets up and leaves. But he’s back almost at once, carrying a wet dishtowel, and he proceeds to wipe Steve’s chest clean. He folds the dirty parts over and cleans up Steve’s cock and his ass, as well. 

The dishtowel is warm. It feels good, and Steve closes his eyes and lets his head loll against the couch. His jaw aches. The dying fire crackles, warm and peaceful. 

It lets out a billow of sparks when Bucky tosses the dirty dishtowel on it. “Bucky,” Steve protests.

“We’ll buy ‘em a new one.” Bucky is poking at the fire, feeding it new sticks, building it to brightness again. When it’s dancing he turns to Steve, smiling, the glow of the flames reflected on his face, and Steve reaches up for him with sleep-heavy limbs. 

Bucky lets Steve draw him in for a clumsy kiss. He crawls on top of Steve, lying against him full length. The buttons on the pockets of his cargo pants press against Steve’s bare flesh, painful and yet not unpleasant. 

Bucky drags an afghan off the back of the sofa and drapes it over them both. A branch in the fire crackles and falls, and suddenly Steve relaxes, warm all through and drowsy. “Good night,” he murmurs.

Bucky pecks a kiss high on Steve’s jaw, just below the sorest part. “Sleep tight.”


End file.
